The ULCER
by bronxcheer
Summary: A discontented worker is tired of being oppressed by the heroes of Middle Earth, and decides not to wage bloody war against this injustice, but to take legal action. Chapter 3 now up! The U.L.C.E.R. is a mnemonic. For what? You'll see!
1. Convoluted Introduction of Doom!

Long, Annoying Author's Note

Hey, guys. Just before you begin to read "The U.L.C.E.R.", I'd like to give you some information beforehand so it makes a little more sense - cause I know that the multiple voices in my head that serve as my writing muses are more than a little crazy.

It's widely known that Tolkien wrote the trilogy in the style of an epic. In epics, the narrator or author tends to focus on the "cream of the crop" - that is, the heroes, tending to talk exclusively of the superhuman man with god-given abilities to swim for ten days straight, or well-known folks descended from royalty or from deities, ignoring lower classes (such as smiths or maids - classes that the average person could identify with).

This is also very apparent in the trilogy (for example, Aragorn, Arwen, even Frodo in some way). Anyway, it got me thinking - what would happen if I incorporated all-too-harsh reality into the mythical epics of the Lord of The Rings? The result was this (I hope Tolkien isn't spinning around in his grave).

Another important point to bring up is that in "The U.L.C.E.R.", _characters are well aware that they are part of a book and movie universe_. They know that they are the whimsical fabrications of a writer, who they refer to as (surprise, surprise) The Author - and they're totally cool with it. At least in my little dream fanfiction. "The U.L.C.E.R." takes place shortly after Frodo has destroyed The One Ring and Sauron.

As I am neither well-versed in the intrinsic details of legal followings, nor am I very well-versed in the elaborate details of the Trilogy, please forgive any small mistakes you find, legal or canon (I assure you that they are not being made on purpose, and encourage you to correct me via the reviews). Once again, I apologize for the convoluted intro, and hope that you enjoy!


	2. Chapter 1: The stirrings of discontent

Disclaimer of Doom: I don't own Lord of the Rings. I would like to borrow it sometime to play with, though. However, all other ficticious characters that are not mentioned in the LoTR trilogy do belong to me. Miiiinee. -hoards-

A/N: Just kidding, I wouldn't do that to you again after that whole introduction thing. ;)

Summary: A discontented worker is tired of being oppressed by the heroes of Middle-Earth, and decides - no, not to wage bloody war against this injustice, but to take legal action.

* * *

Nariel appeared around the corner, scowling. A petite, dark haired elleth with no notable parentage at all, she had been scripted into the baker's kitchen almost from the moment she could stand. She was called simply by her begetting month (the sixth month), akin to many of the other common elf-maidens who were only mentioned in passing by the Author. This resulted in about three more Nariels around the kitchens, gardens and hallways of Imladris. Nariel had heard that the Gwirithiels (the fourth month) had become so flustered by this confusion that the staff of Imladris had simply taken to referring to the oldest as Gwirith-er (denoting 'one', in the speech of the Dunedain) and the youngest as Gwirith-nerte (the ninth, poor thing). 

Fortunately for Nariel, she was apparently the only elleth working under the baker to have been born in the sixth month. Unfortunately for Nariel, this merited excess harassment from the baker himself, as he was tired of calling a single name and having two to ten identically flour-smothered maidens jostle for his attention. Paying no attention to the fact that _clearly_ the younger Maerwen was undisputedly the most graceful at serving, the baker had delegated the task of carrying pasties out to the Council of their elf lord, who were now celebrating the downfall of Sauron, to her.

Nariel once again made sure that nobody of importance was traipsing blindly down the hallways, reciting nutty poetry about the Lady of the Light before she stepped lightly out of the doorway, balancing a huge tray of delectable baker's delights precariously in her hands. She hated having to serve the ones who were mentioned frequently in the books, who either treated her as if she was an invisible being or gave her a short scathing look of utter contempt. Elves were widely renowned for being the fairest creatures of Illuvatar, but as far as Nariel knew, those looks changed them to creatures more hideous than the most mutilated Uruk-hai.

Entering the loud raucous room, she sidestepped a dangerously drunk dwarf and headed to the table. Many others, elves and men alike, came insanely close to tipping her tray with absolutely no regard for the elleth, not even sparing a glance to whom they had jostled so rudely. Now positively red with anger, Nariel reached her destination to put down the tray, when tragedy struck. A war hero (from the glowing but brief descriptions the starry-eyed baker's wife had given, this was to be either Eomer or Aragorn) toppled from the table on which he had been dancing and spilled his drink all over the crown of her head.

Her resounding scream of rage silenced the entire room. Nevertheless cowed by the sudden attention that was being paid to her, Nariel said heatedly, "You heroes are praised from all the corners of the world, dining on sumptuous roast pheasant and fine wine, while the countless, nameless servants toil in the hot kitchen and cold cellar to provide you with what you take for granted. And yet, nary a thank you, nor even a mention in the books or the movies do we get!"

"Well, did you carry the Ring all the way from Imladris to Mordor? Did you save Middle-Earth?" A relatively calm elf nearby tried to reason with her, while dragging Eomer (or Aragorn, whichever) to a seat. "I don't think any reader would be titillated with the daily life of a scullery maid compared to Frodo's glorious adventure."

"Regardless! I should think that even if I did not save Middle-Earth, it would not merit being bathed in mead and ale every other night! Besides, look at yourself! The Author didn't even give you a _name_! You're just a 'relatively calm elf nearby', you...you...relatively nameless thing!"

The elf began to look affronted and opened his mouth to protest, but closed it suddenly as he realized that she spoke the truth. Confused, he began to wander about, asking others if they knew his name. When nobody could answer his questions, he ran out of the room, sobbing uncontrollably.

Elrond the Half-Elven rose from the high table, evidently noticing the rising mass of confusion in his guests. Attempting to reason with many of them, who were now hysterically asking their companions if they knew what their names were, he raised his hand for quiet.

"Silence!" He roared. The crowd turned mutinously towards him. "Do not panic! You all have identities," the elf reassured.

"Typical of you to say, Elrond Peredhil! Everybody knows who _you_ are! Nothing to worry about, everything's turning up daisies for you, isn't it?" an agitated man shouted in his direction, before turning back to his friend and breathlessly urging him to try and remember his name. Elrond, suitably rattled, scanned the crowds for the one in his employ who had caused such ruckus, but she had already slipped away.

_TBC..._


	3. Chapter 2: Hide and Scheme

Disclaimer of Death: I don't own Lord of The Rings. Why do I have to say that? It kills me inside just a little bit every time.

A/N: We join our little troublemaker in the hallway after the ruckus she has caused in the mess hall. Again, if there are any legal/canon errors, please do tell me through the reviews and I'll revise as needed! Enjoy!

* * *

Leaning against the wall, her heart pounding at her incredible, pig-headed courage, Nariel noted that suddenly the space around her seemed inexplicably airless. Then she realized that she simply wasn't breathing, and sucked in some of the refreshing night air loudly. Not knowing whether to feel exhilarated or utterly frightened, as both emotions corresponded to each other too naturally, she decided instead to run as fast as she could back to the sleeping rooms before some angry, important being sought her.

She dove beneath her covers and stayed hidden in her warm cocoon of blankets, hearing the muffled, confused murmurings of the other scullery maids as they filed into the room, discussing the utterly non-canon way in which their elf lord had stormed into the kitchens demanding to see the elleth who had served his comapny that night. As the baker could not seem to locate Nariel, he instead had offered his stammering apologies and reassurances that, when the girl made her reappearance, she would be duly punished.

Beneath the pressing suffocation of her blankets, the maid in question sighed gustily. She would rather go looking for a dwarf to marry before facing the wrath of the baker, Gilros, who loved to wield a rolling pin that possibly stung sharper than the Witch-King's mace. "There must be an easier way," Nariel thought furiously. "Surely many of them are as malcontent as I am."

"If you ask me," a nasal voice scoffed, rising above the collective murmurs, "that Nariel is looking for more than a beating from old Gilros. She is looking to completely eradicate our extensive history and cultural traditions."

"I don't know," another voice joined in. "I, for one, am absolutely sick of having to watch the Dunedain eat the food we prepared with all our efforts like slobbering pigs. I burn my hand on the hot stove every day; surely a lifetime of unrecognized labour deserves some sort of mention in the books. She was brave to speak."

"Either way, the maiden you speak of is too young an elf for her opinion to have any effect upon our age-old traditions," a raspy, throaty voice that Nariel recognized as the baker's wife spoke with an air of finality. The elves quieted down immediately; along with working alongside her husband in the kitchen, the baker's wife doubled as a stern matron to the scullery maids. "Off to bed, there is much work to be done ere the sun rises tomorrow."

A collective groan rose up among the elves as they readied themselves for slumber, many more among their number now agreeing that, foolish as Nariel was, she _did_ have a point. And in their dreams, many tossed and turned unsatisfactorily, haunted by the vision of countless millennia filled with sweeping the long, winding pathways of Imladris, baking endless rows of terribly boring lembas and washing mountains of the undergarments of the High Elves.

Nariel, on the other hand, spent the long night plotting. The seeds of discontent had indeed been planted, and she _would_ be the one to bring them to fruition.

_TBC... _


	4. Chapter 3: Laying low, quite literally

Disclaimer of Drudgery: I don't own rights to the Lord of The Rings trilogy. I, however, _do_ own a copy of LoTR: Fellowship of The Ring and LoTR: Return of The King. I have no idea where the middle book went, and it bugs me a lot, but I'm way too lazy to look for it right now. All other characters are my creations. My precious babies! -cuddles-

A/N: We join Nariel as she experiences a few hair-raising encounters with the High Elves and other miscellaneous authority figures. I intentionally made some of them really big jerks, to highlight the whole discrimination of the low class workers further. Sorry, Glorfindel fans! Again, if there are any legal/canon errors, do tell me!

And before I forget, thank you for the reviews! They keep me alive in this terrible, cruel world.

* * *

Before the rays of the sun roused her fellow slumberers, Nariel carefully eased aside the stifling blankets and crept out of the communal sleeping room. Slipping on a nondescript shift, she tiptoed into the sleepy hallways. She knew full well that she could no longer return to the kitchen and escape with her skin still intact, but what to do? Sooner or later, no matter how many Nariels were employed by the Lord of Imladris, somebody would find her, and then her fair bottom would never heal from the cruel abrasions of the rolling pin of Gilros.

Deciding to ponder this imminent problem after she had successfully evaded the current danger of loitering aimlessly around the hallways, Nariel tied a scrap of cloth across her features, leaving only her eyes uncovered. Today, she would masquerade as a footpath sweeper in Lord Elrond's gardens. She ran to the nearest balcony and scrambled onto the drooping branches of a weeping willow. After making her perilous way down the gnarly trunk (she was rather afraid of heights, but sleepy Imladris was now waking up and already the slow murmur of bustling workers was filling the air), Nariel looked about in the courtyard in which she had climbed down into.

It was a square-shaped open area, filled with the scent of fragrant herbs and fresh grass. Neatly trimmed hedges outlined the smooth marble pathways, while overhead, the fronds of many trees shaded whomever should walk amongst them. The morning dew glistened as the sun roused itself above the encompassing horizon and beamed upon the earth.

Nariel became aware of a faint screaming, growing rapidly in volume along with the pattering of footsteps. She threw herself down upon the grass face-forward just as the elf from last night who had once been relatively calm (now showcasing dark rings of exhaustion under his eyes) burst into the courtyard wailing like he was on fire. He ran through the garden and disappeared under an archway leading to the lotus ponds.

Once again alone, the elleth sighed her relief. However, she was alerted to another's presence by the ominous sound of a clearing throat from behind her.

"What are you doing?" A golden-haired elf was standing on the pathway, looking with haughty scorn at the grass streaked elf maid still prostate on the wet ground. With a shock, Nariel realized that he was the well-known companion of Elrond Peredhil, Glorfindel, whom had been seated next to the Lord of Imladris last night. She quickly scrambled up.

"Oh, I was just ... checking the grass. Yes, still green!" She said, flustered beyond comprehension. He raised an eyebrow at her and she closed her eyes, sighing at her frustratingly idiotic response. Luckily, he was evidently more concerned with other matters than her actual explanation. Brushing some nonexistent lint off of his well-groomed shoulder, he spoke again.

"You have neither wished me a pleasant morning, nor greeted me by my name. Did you not realize that you were speaking to mighty Glorfindel, Balrog slayer?" Behind her hastily constructed mouth mask, Nariel silently mocked the elf lord by mouthing along with his self-given title, barely able to exercise control over her eyes which ached to roll heavenward at the behavior of the narcissistic elf.

"_Suiliad,_ Lord Glorfindel. _Mae govannen_," she finally said in response to his impatient look, almost unable to keep the dripping sarcasm veiled in her placid greeting.

"I believe you might be needing this," he said, giving her a hooded glance down his straight, regal nose. From behind his back, he produced a small broom and flung it towards her, Nariel catching it just with her fingertips. Turning away from her as if she had simply disappeared into thin air, he nonchalantly strolled down the pathway in the same direction that the hysterical, nameless elf had gone.

"Moronic, empty-headed dwarf-lover," Nariel muttered mutinously, rudely jutting her tongue out at his receding back. Her encounter with Glorfindel only served to reinforce her belief that his deplorable lack of appearances within the trilogy, in comparison with the other High Elves, was due to his apparent inability to co-operate with anybody but himself. At least The Author seemed to not be completely lacking in common sense.

"However the other elves put up with snobs like him, I simply cannot fathom. Why my indignity at being treated worse than the dirt others tread on isn't catching on, I do not know either," Nariel said to herself, truly baffled, as she looked at the dusty marble and with another sigh, began to sweep.

---

Finally the sun set on another hard day of work. Nariel had simply taken to ducking behind stone benches or striking a still pose to emulate a granite statue (the grey dust coating her body lent her the amazing likeness of one) when anybody decided to take a stroll through the particular courtyard to which she was tending. For fear of being discovered, she had worked throughout the long day without a meal, as that would have meant journeying into the kitchen (and within the grasp of the baker). As the final stars slowly unveiled themselves to shine brightly in the night sky and the rustling of the last servants had died down, Nariel lay aside her broom and stole into the hallways of Imladris once again.

She peeled the now dirty sheath of cloth from her grimy face as she approached the kitchen. If she was lucky, a few slices of the baker's latest rejections (as his creations had to be _absolutely perfect_ to grace the light stomachs of the High Elves) would still be sitting upon the counter tops.

The kitchen was entirely silent and dark upon her arrival. Nariel sighed a huge breath of relief, then inhaled sharply as her eyes, now adjusted to the dark, fell upon a few misshapen lumps of bread lying forlornly on one of the workbenches.

"He he," she involuntarily snickered at her own cleverness as she snuck up to the loaves of elvish bread. Making haste, she grabbed two, pushing them down the top of the grievously flat front of her dress for safekeeping. Taking another loaf, she unceremoniously shoved it into her hungry mouth, biting off as much as she could. Nariel chewed methodically, pausing only in her devouring to briefly contemplate the bulges the bread made in the torso of her dirty shift.

"I wish," she snorted out loud, resuming her sloppy eating.

"Hey!" A throaty voice shouted. Nariel turned around blindly as a spluttering candle was suddenly thrust in her face, blinding her with its flooding light. A meaty hand came out of the darkness and secured a death grip upon one of Nariel's own scrawny arms. Nearly choking on the bread, Nariel attempted to yank her arm out of the tight hold, to no avail. Her pupils contracted and the baker's wife's scowling face came into focus, distorted with anger.

"There you are, you little useless wench," she hissed. "Do you know all of Imladris has been seeking you since the disaster last night? Your master had to make double the usual order of cupcakes to sedate the High Elves!" Nariel watched as the raw rage twisting the features of the baker's wife slowly gave way to wild glee. "And now I have you! Oh, you'll regret the day you entered this very kitchen!" The heavyset, pudgy elf-woman began to drag a resisting Nariel towards the door.

"W-wait!" Nariel pleaded, struggling futilely, her arm feeling as if any moment it would leave her shoulder. The baker's wife paused to give Nariel a look of exasperation. Thinking hastily, Nariel began in a persuasive tone. "Imagine if The Author was coerced into writing about us, the unseen and unheard folk of Imladris. Imagine the infinite possibilities lying before you." Taking on a carefully constructed, far-away expression, Nariel stepped towards the baker's wife, stretching out her hand into the darkness as if painting a picture in front of them.

"Gilros has recently died from accidentally putting his head into an oven. After a century of mourning and weeping, you, a fair maiden of Imladris, favourite maidservant of Lady Arwen ..." Nariel almost gagged on her own blatant lies; even if The Author did decide to write about them, surely the result of his most ludicrous work would not entail such a miraculous change in the baker's unattractive wife. However, the baker's wife's eyes had taken on a dreamy-like quality; she didn't seem to notice that Nariel was practically lying through her gritted teeth. Swallowing nervously, the maid continued.

"... you finally manage to overcome your overwhelming sorrow. Wrapped in a revealing, yet appropriately somber velvet gown of the darkest ebony, you stand alone listening to an evening bird's song, wreathed in the light of the fading sun. Suddenly, a man's voice rises above the song of the lone nightingale. He is singing gently of your unsurpassed beauty and your undying generosity. Startled out of your previous thoughts, you glide gracefully-" Here, Nariel nearly choked again, this time holding back laughter - the baker's wife would be more likely to glide as gracefully as a hog-tied Oliphaunt. After a hasty moment of calming herself, she took up the story again, carefully watching her captive audience.

"You glide gracefully to the edge of the balcony, wondering who this singer is. As you peek shyly over the gilded railings and see your serenader, you gasp in delight as your hand flies to your beating heart. It is Eomer, brave and handsome hero, Marshal of the Riddermark, his eyes alight with his fiery love for you!" The baker's wife's meaty claw loosened its grip on Nariel almost immediately as the elf-woman nearly swooned, clutching her chest with one hand and supporting herself against the doorframe with the other. Nariel felt like jumping for joy, but restrained herself, nevertheless very pleased that she had remembered that the baker's wife harboured an almost obsessive love for the nephew of Rohan's king, Theoden. (A/N: Reference to Chapter 1, folks!)

Stepping safely out of reach and rubbing her painful arm, Nariel spoke again, this time in a grievous tone. "But your love for him can never be under our current circumstances. Forget that ever I spoke of such a beautiful dream, even though it would be easily obtainable if only more of my kin shared my views. _Namarie_, mistress. I wish you a good night." The expression of pure joy on the face of the baker's wife began to fade into disappointment. Without looking behind her, Nariel promptly fled, escaping with her half eaten bread and her sore arm.

_TBC..._

(Endnotes: A little "Basic Elvish 101": Both "Suiliad" and "Mae govannen", spoken by Nariel to Glorfindel, basically mean "Greetings". "Namarie", spoken by Nariel to the baker's wife, means "Farewell".)

(PS: I might need a beta reader. I spelt "elf" as "ef" accidentally and now I am humiliated beyond comprehension because the story was up there for like 3 days before I noticed it. -dies-)


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